A hand grasped his shoulder. “Adam, hold up. It’s me, Tanner. Come on. There’s no time.” Tanner yanked him toward the front of the warehouse.
“Why are we walking
away
from the door?” And, what the hell are you doing here, Adam wanted to ask.
Tanner must have realized he was leading Adam as if he were a child. He dropped his hand. “There are three men outside the back entrance. They’re waiting for the German, I think.”
Adam coughed into his fist. The German was going to be in trouble. He would have walked right into the mayhem if not for Tanner’s interference.
“Thanks.”
“Not now. We still have to get out of here.”
They crept along as quietly as possible, yet their footfalls rang like church bells in the deserted structure. The stinging odor of raw tobacco and sweat pervaded the warehouse, one of many along Kanawha Canal.
“Want a smoke?” Tanner gestured to a huge burlap bag, open and overflowing with shriveled, yellow-green tobacco leaves.
“Funny.”
As they reached the front entrance, Adam stopped Tanner with a tap on the back. “They may be at this door, too. Let’s go through one of the windows running along the canal.”
“What about your arm?”
“I can make it.” Adam had injured his arm investigating a story the week before, and it was not back to normal by any estimation.
They made their way to the row of windows ten feet above the plank floor. Shafts of moonlight struggled to penetrate the grimy glass, landing in serrated patches at their feet.
Tanner tilted his head, pointed. “There’s an open one. I’ll pull a crate over and check to see if the way is clear.”
Adam glanced behind him as the sound of the crate being dragged across the floor filled the area. He could scarcely see Tanner in the darkness, then the light flowing in the window brought his profile into sight as he climbed atop the crate.
“All clear. Climb up, if you can. I’ll help you over.”
Adam nodded, cursing his stupidity. What would have happened if he had gotten caught? With his injured arm, he was as helpless as a child.
He pulled himself atop the crate, protecting his arm as much as possible. Every contact with the wound acted like the edge of a knife upon his skin. He stood, brushing against Tanner.
“Hey, no free feels.”
“Shut the hell up.”
Adam grasped the window ledge with his good arm and swung his left leg up. Tanner supported him as he worked to place the other.
“Got it?” Tanner asked, breathing hard.
Adam nodded as he swayed, squatting precariously on the ledge. He looked at the ground for a moment, then closed his eyes and jumped. Luckily, he hit the ground on his feet. Momentum forced him forward. He pitched to his uninjured side, but rolled twice before coming to a stop. For a moment, he thought he was going to heave his dinner into the dark canal.
The slap of Tanner’s feet hitting the ground sounded behind him. Adam groaned and rose onto his elbow, every movement clumsy.
“Do you need help?” Tanner asked, his dusty boots coming into Adam’s line of vision.
“No.” He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand.
“Stubborn ass.”
* * *
“I want this story.”
“Adam—”
“All right. All right.” Adam lifted his hand in mock surrender. “Let me put this another way. I’m taking the story.”
Tanner shrugged with practiced ease and sauntered to the sidebar and the open bottle of whiskey.
They had been lucky enough to find a private room in their club where they could talk; Adam had refused to discuss anything at dinner.
Pouring a drink, Tanner turned to regard his friend with a cool, calculating gaze. Adam knew what he was doing. Tanner had been in the business long enough to get all the information he could in one sweeping glance.
“Looked me over closely enough?”
“Yes, sir.” Tanner saluted. “No business of mine what you do with your life, sir.”
“Damn right,” Adam agreed and raised his glass to second it.
Tanner tilted his back, draining it in one swallow.
Adam pushed away from the wall, his negligent stance somewhat painful under the circumstances.
“What about your arm? That gonna hold you up?”
Adam glanced at the sling. It was bloody and dirty from his rough landing on the canal’s boardwalk. “Hold up? I write with my right hand.”
Tanner slammed the glass down. “
You fool
.”
A bored smile was the only response Adam would allow.
“Dammit, man, you’re taking too many risks. What could you be thinking? You got out of that storage building last week just before it collapsed.”
Adam shrugged.
“Your clothes were on fire, or has that fact escaped your memory?”
“Trust me, flames licking at your trousers is something you never forget.”
“What about tonight? Sneaking into a warehouse with a useless arm. It’s a damn good thing I followed you.” Tanner poured another drink and swirled the amber liquid in the glass.
Adam turned, resting his good arm on the window ledge as he looked over Bank Street. Carriages of all shapes and sizes crowded the passage. The hoarse bellow of street vendors and the gentle cry of horses floated to him. The wind brushed the velvet portiere against his face.
Strangely enough, he missed the calm of Edgemont. The sweet scent of honeysuckle and pine. The tranquil magnificence of a balmy night, when each star in the sky, hundreds and hundreds of them, could be seen. He longed to savor the wind whipping across the open fields, caressing his skin, bringing with it the essence of every living being it has touched.
“My decision is a sound one.” An intoxicated man stumbled from a saloon; Adam observed his faltering progress with a discriminate eye.
“No. You’re too careless. Something is distracting you.”
Tanner was correct. Distractions were everywhere. A dark-haired woman in a crowd of people caught his eye like never before. The sound of feminine laughter sparked so many memories, memories he cherished
and
abhorred. And, oh, the scent of roses had the power to bring him to his knees. He shook his head to clear it of things that were beyond his reach.
“Quit worrying, Tanner. I found I missed the investigative aspect of the business. Simple as that. The editorial side is not quite as challenging. I had forgotten that until...”
“Until South Carolina?”
Adam gripped the ledge, his shoulders stiffening.
“Why don’t—”
Twisting around, Adam threw his hand out. “Stop. Whatever it is you were going to say. It’s none of your business.”
“You made it my business.
I’m
the one who took her to the train station.” Tanner frowned and shoved his hand in his pocket. “Try explaining to a woman why her...
friend
isn’t there to see her off.”
“Thought you said she didn’t ask.”
Tanner lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug. “
She
didn’t. But the old bag couldn’t stop talking about the ‘utter boorishness of such an act.’ Made me feel damned uncomfortable, it did.” He walked to a chair and threw himself into it. “Coward.”
Adam rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was a coward. He would never forgive himself for letting her leave without a word or a note.
Nothing
. The worst part, the part that ate at his gut like buzzards to prey was: she understood why he had not been able to come to the train station.
He knew she did.
And she would never be angry with him for it.
No matter how furious he was with himself.
Tanner pulled himself to his feet. “I’m going home. I’m too tired to try to talk you out of this idiocy.” He crossed the room in three strides. The door slammed behind him.
Adam rotated back to the window, allowing the memory of blue eyes the shade of a dazzling twilight sky to surge through him in agonizing waves.
* * *
The morning air was as sharp and frigid as an old woman’s cackle and just as inviting. Sunlight reflected off the river and bounced into Adam’s eyes as he stooped to grab a rock from the ground. He turned the rock in his hand as he stared blindly into the water.
“
I have a creek behind my house, remember?
” she had said to him.
He smiled, remembering the strange way she skipped, with that peculiar curl of her wrist. Surprisingly, the rock had gone flying, tapping along at least three or four times.
So
much
about Charlie Whitney had been a surprise. Her intelligence, her strength, her courage, her startling wisdom. Her passion, which lay so close to the surface.
He should not have tapped that passion. Because, like a miner who discovers a wide vein of gold, he was greedy. He wanted more.
She had said that to him, too.
He laughed and tossed the rock into the water.
Unpredictable. Never had he met a woman so unpredictable. So candid. So impertinent. She was the poorest excuse for a southern belle he knew.
And the best lover he’d ever had.
Of course, the desire that lay between them was extraordinary. The mechanics of the act faded into the distance when you wanted someone that much. When he remembered being inside her, images assaulted him: heated skin, lips touching, seeking, roses and the musky smell of sex, moist warmth, breathless cries.
Security. Contentment.
Love
.
He growled low in his throat and wrenched around. With angry steps, he walked deeper into the woods edging the river.
He could not love her.
Would not love her
.
Oh, God. It frightened him to consider that the matter had been decided without his consent.
Frowning, he kicked a limb from his path and climbed the gentle slope that lay ahead of him. At the top, a bare area, free of straw and twigs, sat beneath a pine tree. He shifted his gaze about the space, and a flash of color in the dirt caught his attention. Going to one knee, he trailed his hand upon the ground. Imbedded most of the way in the soil—with just the tip exposed—was a pencil. Adam swallowed and extracted it as if it was crystal.
She must have come here to sketch.
His neck muscles tensed as a picture of her sitting beneath the tree came to him: tongue stuck between her teeth, head tilted to the side in concentration, feet more than likely naked, skirt hiked to her knees as she wiggled her toes in the dirt.
The crack of the pencil snapping in two tugged him from the vision.
“Damn,” he muttered and threw the pieces to the ground. Then, pitifully, like a beggar after a few coins, he gathered them and slipped them in his shirt pocket.
He turned his face into the wind whipping off the river and tried to remember his mother’s voice. Sometimes he could not remember her face, much less her voice. What would she have told him to do? His mother’s heart had been pure, her love for her family genuine. Even his father, the bastard, had received only her deepest respect. He had never talked with his mother of life and love. After all, she had died when her children were still children.
He ran his hand through his hair. It shook as he lowered it to the ground.
He would have liked to talk with her now. Ask her why she had stayed with his father when love was absent. Ask her what he should do with his own life.
She would have liked Charlie.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet with his good arm. He had stopped using the sling, although the doctor had grumbled, saying the blisters would heal quicker if he did not stretch the skin.
He headed down the slope, his breath racing in a white cloud ahead of him. The sun was sinking in the sky, the night getting colder by the second. He hoped Mrs. Beard had a fire lit in the library. Sleep would not come easily this night.
As he approached the house, he noticed a light in the kitchen window glowing bright as a star. The side door would be open. Pausing before the pantry entrance, he kicked dirt from his boots. When he opened the door, warm air and the spicy scent of pepper encompassed him. Mrs. Beard stood at the stove, moving a wooden spoon in slow circles about a pot.
“Smells good,” he said for lack of anything better.
“Vegetable soup. And cornbread. I’m trying to use all the food that’s fixing to go bad. Should be ready soon.” She banged the spoon against the side of the pot and turned to him. “Should I set the table?”
He shook his head. “No. The library is fine.”
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. Mrs. Beard believed only food eaten at a well-set table digested properly. “Whatever you say. I put your mail in there just a little while ago.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Beard was a diligent butler, cook, housekeeper, and mother all mixed into one.
His footfalls echoed in the hallway as he strode to the library. He threw the door open, pleased to see a blaze fluttering in the fireplace. Tossing his coat to the nearest chair, he began unbuttoning the neck of his shirt as he walked to the desk. He had once told his father a buttoned shirt was the reason he had decided against becoming a lawyer. Needless to say, Judge Chase had not been amused.